BEAUTY IN DETACHMENT

The faint sound of my phone slowly enters my subconscious.

My hand blindly reaches out to tap snooze for the first time this morning.

Oddly enough, I lay on my back to stare at the ceiling instead.

Brightness seeped in hours before I opened my eyes today.

This means one thing—summer is slowly rolling in.

It’s the third round of scorching walks to and from work under the sun.

A season I love for the tropical vibe it brings.

The mornings stretch longer than usual.

Evenings offer a cooler breeze.

It reminds me of home.

Home.

I haven’t been home since I left almost 3 years ago.

My mind wanders to something Lana asked over the weekend:

“When will it hit you? Will it ever hit you?”

I chuckle softly and take another breath.

The answer finally comes to mind:

“I’ve been detached from this new chapter from the start.”

Almost 3 years ago, I arrived in this town with the proverbial baggage heavier than anything I’ve ever carried around my shoulders in the 31 years I’ve been alive.

Nothing but darkness, a surprising sliver of hope, and ghosts from my past walked with me.

I remember looking around my apartment that first night.

Empty.

Foreign.

Cold.

It was unlike the comfort of my childhood bedroom I just left behind.

Frazzled as I was from the 2-week quarantine and the early morning travel, I forgot to grab dinner on the way to this random place I should now be calling, “home”.

Walking to the konbini that night was the first time I felt that lost.

No clue where to go, what to do, how to be, and why I was even there.

That was the same moment it hit me: This place will never be remotely close to home.

Confirming this realization in 2024.

Sure, I’ve learned to be comfortable living here. It somehow makes me feel safer than any other place.

But there’s always this thought at the back of my mind that all of this is nothing but temporary.

It goes without saying that from the very first night, I have been detached.

And I consider it the best life skill I’ve cultivated coming into this chapter of my life.

I’ve always had a looser grip on everything since, and there is beauty in that.

Younger Jopaz would have been sentimental and upset about moving on again.

Ironically, right now, I feel a sense of security in knowing I anticipated this ending—even before I started writing the first page.

Detachment has taught me to enjoy a season, a moment, and an encounter for what it is as it happens.

It shifted my perspective to appreciating the present rather than looking back and searching for the things that sparked joy after the fact.

Similarly, though not easily, it taught me not to dwell on the worst of days.

I found myself constantly latching on and letting go of all the things that tried to pull me down...back into the darkness.

So when she asked me that question, all I had on my mind was sushi.

I didn't have an answer.

Until this morning.

I realized how it's hitting me that I'm so ready to leave.

To pack my bags once again.

Say farewell to the people I've met.

And to start yet another chapter of my life.

With her.

Because while I've learned to detach from everything else, I've allowed myself to hold on to what we have.

While I've never considered this city to be anything close to home, I've found a new home in her.

This love we've found somewhere between the loneliness, the uncertainty, and the mystery of carving our paths in Japan has been so impactful.

So much so that I still can't fathom how everything just fell into place the moment it did.

I got out of bed this morning with this wonderful reality:

There is beauty in detachment. But there is something equally beautiful in holding on to someone you consider your home.

Let that guide your interactions this week, fellow wallflowers.

Sending you warm vibes from my desk this Monday.

Talk soon,

Jopaz